"Roberts, Nora - Irish Hearts 3 - Irish Rebel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

"That's a separate enterprise." Travis smiled slightly. "You'll work the racehorses. You can move your things into the trainer's quarters when you're ready." Travis flicked a glance toward the garage house.
Brian opened his mouth-then shut it again. He hadn't expected housing to be part of the package, but wasn't about to argue it away. If it didn't suit him, they'd deal with it later.
"You have a beautiful home. Someone likes their flowers."
"My wife." Travis turned onto a slate path. "She's particularly fond of flowers."
And Brian imagined they had a staff of gardeners, landscapers, whatever it was, to deal with them. "The horses appreciate a pretty setting."
Travis stepped onto a patio, turned. "Do they?''
"They do."
"Did Betty tell you that when you were speaking to her?"
Brian met Travis's amused eyes levelly. "She indicated she was a queen and expected to be treated as such."
"And will you?"
"I will, until she abuses the privilege. Even royalty needs a bit of a yank now and again."
So saying, he stepped through the door Travis held open.
Brian didn't know what he'd been expecting. Something sleek and sophisticated. Something grand, certainly.
He hadn't been expecting to walk into the Grants' kitchen, nor to find it big and cluttered and despite the gleam of snazzy appliances and fancy tiles, homey.
Certainly the last thing he'd expected was to see the lady of the manor herself in an old pair of jeans, bare feet and a faded T-shirt standing at the stove with a skillet while she rang a peal over the head of her youngest son.
"And I'll tell you another thing, Patrick Michael Thomas Cunnane, if you think you can come and go at all hours as you damn please just because you're going off to college, you'd best get that thick head of yours examined in a hurry. I'll be happy to do it myself, with the skillet I have in my hand, just as soon as I'm done with it."
"Yes, ma'am." At the table Patrick sat with his shoulders hunched, wincing at his mother's back. "But since you're using it, maybe I could have some more French toast. Nobody makes it like you do."
"You won't get around me that way."
"Maybe I will."
She shot a look over her shoulder that Brian recognized as one only a mother could conjure to wither a child.
"And maybe I won't," Patrick muttered, then brightened when he saw Brian at the door. "Ma, we've got company. Have a seat, Brian. Had breakfast? My mother makes world-famous French toast."
"Witnesses won't save you," Adelia said mildly, but turned to smile at Brian. "Come in and sit. Patrick, get Brian and your father plates."
"No, thank you. There's no need to trouble."
"Ma, I can't find my brown shoes." Sarah came bursting in. "Hello, Brian, morning, Dad."
"Sure I had my eyes right on them for weeks," Adelia said as she flipped sizzling bread in the pan. "I can't think how those shoes slipped out of my sight."
Sarah rolled her eyes and yanked open the refrigerator. "I'm going to be late."
"You could wear one of the other six thousand pairs of shoes jammed in your closet," her brother suggested.
Sarah rapped him on the back with the carton of juice she held and otherwise ignored him. "I don't have time for breakfast." She poured juice, glugged it down. "I'll be home by five."
"Take a muffin," Adelia ordered.
"We don't have any blueberry."
"Take what we do have."
"Okay, okay." She grabbed a muffin off a plate, gave her mother a smacking kiss on the cheek, rounded the table to give her father one in turn, crossed her eyes at her brother, then dashed out again.
"Sarah works at the vet's office during the summer," Adelia explained. "The pair of you wash up here now, and we'll get you something hot to eat."
Since the scent of that fried bread was impossible to resist, Brian started toward the sink. And saw the huge old dog stretched out by the stove. He resembled a long, black and outrageously shaggy floor mat.
"And who's this?" Automatically Brian crouched down.
"That's our Sheamus. He's an old man now, and likes to tuck himself at my feet while I'm cooking."
"My wife's fond of mutts," Travis said as he ran water in the sink.
"And they of me. He spends most of his time sleeping," she told Brian. "And isn't much for anyone but family now." Even as she said it her brows rose up. Brian had no more than stroked the old dog's head before Sheamus opened his eyes, thumped his ragged tail, and with a moan rolled over onto his back for a belly rub.
"Would you look at that? He's taken to you."
"Well mutts and I, we understand each other. You're a good old boy, aren't you? Fat and happy."
"Someone feeds him table scraps." Adelia slanted a look at her husband.
"I don't know what you're talking about." All innocence, Travis held out the soap when Brian stood up again.
"Hah" was all she said to that. "Would you have coffee, Brian, or tea?"
"Tea, thank you."
"Sit." She pointed to a chair, then shifted the finger to her son. "You, go. I'll finish with you later."
"I'll be at the stables, doing penance." With a heavy sigh, Patrick rose, then he wrapped his arms around his mother's waist, laid his chin on top of her head. "Sorry."
"Get."
But Brian saw her lay a hand over Patrick's, and squeeze. With a quick grin tossed to the room in general, he bolted.
"That boy's responsible for every other line on my face," Adelia muttered.
"What lines?" Travis asked, and made her laugh.